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Soullessness (R) (Akatsukishipping & Fortuneshipping)

Soullessness... Never forget my face, and I shall never forget yours...

Prologue: Here
Chapter 1: Posted
Chapter 2: Post waiting

A/N: THIS FIC IS COMPLETE. HOWEVER, I WILL NOT PROVIDE A LINK TO THE COMPLETED STORY, AS I'D LIKE READERS ON THIS FORUM TO GO AT THEIR OWN PACE INSTEAD OF SITTING AND READING THE WHOLE THING AT ONCE. Wow, those were unnecessary Caps.

PROLOGUE CONTENT WARNINGS: Brief language.

I'm going to add a content warning at the top of each chapter, as this story contains material that is not suitable for children and may be offensive to some audiences. I will update each chapter once I get a minimum of ONE reply of constructive criticism.

Thanks for the support! Happy reading! --Silent--Protagonist

*****

Dawn

Dawn could only sit still and wait.

Being an impatient girl by nature, she was not one that was particularly inclined to wait for anything, but she knew that her persistence would be well rewarded this time. Lacing her fingers together, she tapped her thumbs aimlessly against the sides of her hands. Vaguely, she noticed the sleeves of her pink coat falling over her thin wrists, so she had to unclasp her hands and raise them up in the air so they could slide back down to the crooks of her elbows. It was pressed and starched clean—the way Cyrus always made sure her clothes were.

While she fidgeted, she thought of everything that had brought her to this imminent moment. How stupid she and Lucas had been—stupid indeed, to think that they could bring down an entire criminal organization with resilience and brawn alone. She truly realized what children they were together—and that was unusual, for when they were alone, they separately managed to find the maturity that helped them endure trials and tries of their courage. Sixteen and continually foolish, even at a time in their lives where teenagers didn't think they were inane after a certain age. She wanted to assert that she wasn't a child anymore, but putting themselves in mutual danger was indeed naďve, exactly how a child would react to a situation like Team Galactic.

Or perhaps she didn't want to imply that—after everything that happened, she wished she were a little girl again. It was so easy for one's innocence to be stripped from them violently and without remorse, and purity, once lost, could not be regained. When she had infiltrated Team Galactic's base with Lucas that afternoon four months ago, she ihad/i been a child, oblivious to the world's struggles and the hunger of man. And she still was, even as the Team kept her and Lucas prisoner and watched them deteriorate—and both in brutally different ways.

They starved Lucas; they allowed him to waste away into nothingness with only a minimal amount of food, without the opportunity to shower or wear clothes other than the rotting rags that he raged in Team Galactic's base with so long ago. He frolicked amongst the other prisoners, plotting and hatching ideas for escape—ideas that never came to fruition. Ratatta nibbled at his scraps and harassed him in his empty but just sleep. To Dawn, Lucas got the long end of the stick.

Dawn was fed. Dawn was clothed. Dawn slept in her own room, with tidy sheets and white walls like the Team Galactic grunts. But that pampering came with a price.

She was tortured in a very special way.

But when had that torture morphed into chore? And when had that chore become a pleasure? When did the dread that sank with the heaviness of a peach pit in her stomach turn to indifference, and when did her uncaring exterior blossom into love? When did Cyrus's bitter, heavy hands soften, and soon caress her with concern and gentle hesitation? The days here had bled into weeks and into months, and she knew not when any of this happened exactly. She merely knew that they did.

And now, she waited. She waited like a good girl, waited for her judgment to be imposed upon her.

Lucas loved her. He had always been in love with her, even when both of them were too young to know what constituted love. They had grown up together in the trees of Twinleaf Town, eagerly waiting at each other's doorsteps so they could run outside and climb the rowan trees that donated their name to the famed Pokemon Professor that lived in there. Lucas had given her homemade present every time Dawn had a birthday or the town openly celebrated Christmastime. Pinecones glued together with sloppy ribbons garnishing the top spears, leaves that had died and crumpled to the earth stuck to a piece of beige construction paper, and twigs bound together and sharpened to a fine point—a "sword," as Lucas had called it eons ago. (Dawn still had that somewhere back home in Twinleaf, she was certain.) And it became customary for Lucas to peck her on the cheek and blush, giving her holiday or celebratory greetings in a shy, drawn voice. Dawn knew that Lucas had always wished to be more to her than a friend, but Dawn could never bring herself to be a slave to such emotions as Lucas. Especially now, trapped in this place of warped logic and empty domain with nothing more but their wits to keep them alive.

But Cyrus.

He was the coldest man Dawn had ever met—and perhaps the darkest heart to ever walk on the planet. He was so pitiless that Dawn was almost convinced that he did not have a soul; Cyrus, she believed, was encapsulated in a state of soullessness. With an unfaltering, steely gaze, Cyrus watched with extremely muted pleasure as the existence of Pokemon and humanity as species went extinct and their world yielded around them. Cyrus never smiled, nor did his general expression of bitter indifference ever change. The whole time Dawn had known him, he had never addressed her by name, only with indirect connotations and bland pronouns. To Dawn, he was cloistered, refusing to open himself up to anybody—not his Commanders, not his Pokemon, and certainly not her.

Yet Dawn knew Cyrus, because she understood through him that even the most emotionless souls can show flickers of mercy. It had taken him months to warm up to her, but when he did, Dawn noticed things. She had seen even the slightest tenderness in his eyes when he touched her; she had felt his body slacken if she tried to tentatively embrace him and curl into hers, as if delighted by the contact. When he looked at her, even in the presence of his Commanders, she saw a grain of something very soft and delicate reflect in distant powder blue eyes. Dawn was thankful that his Commanders were not perceptive and couldn't pick up on such a miniscule shift in Cyrus's expression, for she knew only Cyrus communicated with her so surreptitiously.

Inversely, Lucas was jovial and optimistic, and Dawn herself was not much more pragmatic from the years they spent growing up in each other's presence. Many believed that she and Lucas would get together someday, once Dawn stopped with her eternal cold feet toward her childhood friend. Dawn and Lucas, the future couple, were always the amused talk of Twinleaf. Even their parents got along famously, laughing at the playful notoriety their children had gained.

But it was not Lucas who had been her first. Lucas knew Dawn's personality like his own, but it was Cyrus that knew her body. He was aware of her soft spots and where she was weakest, where she was sensitive and what elicited responses from her. Team Galactic was the fear of Sinnoh, and Cyrus was a man who was hated barely less than Giovanni of Team Rocket in Kanto and Johto. She saw his mug spread across the news like butter and stories of his exploits, followed by rewards offered if anyone could give insight to Team Galactic's heinous plans. If Dawn had been told four months ago that she would be in this position now, she would have ignored the thoughtless suggestion. Stupid w hores for attention and gold-digging widows were the main source of sexual amusement for leaders of criminal organizations, after all.

Dawn was neither, and she was still mistress to a despised monster.

And what frightened her was that she liked it.

Last edited by Silent--Protagonist; 4th September 2012 at 12:31 AM.

Icon by *Mimeko on Deviantart

"Strong Pokemon. Weak Pokemon. That is only the selfish perception of people. Truly skilled trainers should try to win with their favorites."

Cyrus found it silly, really, that two children had the audacity to break into his base like this. Who did they think they were, G-men? Foolhardy, clumsy police officers? The heroes in those frivolous fairy tales he was told as a child, out to "save the world?" Their brazenness was ridiculous. If Cyrus cared even a speck for their failed attempt to overthrow his mighty organization, he would have laughed. But he hadn't laughed for twenty years, so why should he laugh now—and over something so incredibly thick that a laugh would not have even been warranted, much less worth one? Cyrus merely and offhandedly wrote off their daftness as teenage density performed with adult-like consequences. They were young, but they had committed a wrong against him, and they would suffer for it.

Why, in Arceus's name, did they desire to save a world that thrived on ugliness and stupidity? This human world had no endearing qualities; nothing that Cyrus felt made it worth living upon. In fact, it baffled him as to why any person or Pokemon so loved this planet Earth enough to stand in the way of the logic and reason of Team Galactic. His team, after all, only desired to replace this imperfect earth with a more stable and intellectual one by eliminating the ignorance and brashness that so suffocated its atmosphere. What, he asked, was there to save? And if there really was something to save in the eyes of this Earth's inhabitants, why would they send two children to do their deed? He understood now why N and Team Plasma so despised the human beings as a race and wished to eradicate them—the vast majority of the species was dull-witted and too quick to react, rather than calculate their moves. Cyrus shunned being called one.

But, even in his emotionless and aloof spirit, he did find these children… interesting. The boy and girl—perhaps no older than sixteen, a reprehensible age Cyrus remembers well—wielded skilled command of their Pokemon, controlling them with fluid orders and counterattacking his grunts with ease and comfort. Of course, their assault was poorly planned as they were outnumbered, and they did not know the layout of the Team Galactic base, which ultimately led to their downfall and capture. The pair worked together as an oiled team, using each other's Pokemon in rotations of offense and defense. Their strategy of battle was indeed clever, Cyrus had to give them that—but they were still merely children and were too young to fully develop their aplomb in battle. Cyrus knew that even if they had managed to reach him, he would have crushed them easily.

The boy was short for his age, but powerful—he had worn a jacket inside the base, but had discarded it later on in favor of lighter weight, and muscles bulged and shuddered on his biceps. A thick beret, suited for winter conditions, covered a light head of scraggy, sandy brown hair, matted from sweat and reeking with the common odor of determination and fear. Upon apprehension, he grew agitated and lashed out at Cyrus's grunts as they held him, sharp kicks and wild biting flying from him in a rage. Cyrus did not know the boy's name—he had refused to talk to his enemy. For that, Cyrus had to admit some level of respect.

The raven-haired girl, on the other hand, maintained eye contact with the Galactic leader and calmly answered his questions. Her mellifluous, supple voice did not quaver in trepidation, and neither did her dark vision stray from his. Though her hands quivered—the embrace across her chest where she held a wide-eyed and skittish Piplup in her arms—the girl was quite adroit at hiding her terror of Team Galactic. Her name was Dawn, she said, and she understood that her and her partner had been thwarted and that they were to be taken as prisoners. However, she did try to bargain with Cyrus for their lives—but Cyrus assured her that such action was not necessary. They would be kept alive. Not released, but kept alive. He had no use for the boy—thus, as they were carried away, Cyrus noiselessly beckoned for his sole right hand Commander, Saturn, to send the boy to the underground prison where other insurgent outsiders and rebel Team Galactic members were locked away. The prisoners would enjoy a source of fresh amusement. It would keep them quiet, occupy them from speaking of insurgence.

"Does the girl go with him?" Saturn asked.

Cyrus stared at the retreating back of the female radical, her long hair sashaying against her torn and bloodied pink overcoat. The side of his mouth twitched downward in displeasure. She was a compliant, obedient young woman—but she would have to be punished as well. He could not favor one over the other.

Still, there was something about the girl that intrigued him. Bothered him. She was not like the rest of the idiots that were impudent enough to think that they could overpower Team Galactic with resolve alone—when those fools were captured, the strength of their so-called will disintegrated as they wept and begged for their lives or fought with the panic of caged animals, as the boy had. When the girl was met with defeat, she did not relent and observed her loss with grace.

It was almost as if she did not expect to win.

That uncharacteristic humbleness in girls her age disarmed Cyrus. Why did she act this way? What influenced her? How were she and the boy related? Cyrus had thousands of questions. He was curious. Curiosity, to him, was not an emotion and simply a human response to something he did not understand. Being curious brought about the desire for discovery—and discovery yielded knowledge.

He welcomed curiosity. And his curiosity was piqued.

"Keep her up here," he told Saturn. "I have plans for her."

Icon by *Mimeko on Deviantart

"Strong Pokemon. Weak Pokemon. That is only the selfish perception of people. Truly skilled trainers should try to win with their favorites."